


6 inches higher

by ironicHeadtilt



Category: IDubbbzTV - Fandom, The Filthy Frank Show, The Filthy Frank Show (Web Series)
Genre: Bottom!Ian, Brooklyn AU, Ian in thigh-high kinky boots, Ian with guns, Ian with tattoos, Kinda aggressive, Kinkyboots AU kinda, M/M, One Night Stand, One-Shot, There isn't much storyline, This is fake deep a lot, Top!George
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 13:22:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10742532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironicHeadtilt/pseuds/ironicHeadtilt
Summary: George walks into a bar in Brooklyn and, lo and behold, meets a man in thigh high boots and no sense of self-preservation.(Inside, some details on what's up with Holster your Gun, Hermes)





	6 inches higher

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so, this is the one-shot I was talking about.
> 
> This is me, trying to get over my writer's block. I don't usually post the "getting over my writer's block" stories, but I felt like y'all probably needed something idk. Anyway, this is completely unrelated to HYGH; it's the alternate universe in which Ian is a Brooklyner and a bitch boy or something. Idk, there were a lot of things I put in here for the shits and giggles, so just enjoy it without asking too many questions.
> 
> (Some elements from this might leak into HYGH since I did use this to explore the opposite versions of the characters I created for HYGH. Just a heads up.)

 

The falling snow was turning to pelleting ice when George walked under a red neon sign, pushing the wood door open, huddling inside, and wiping his feet on the soaked and softening cardboard which served as the door mat. Soft synth music thrummed as George took off his scarf and folded it in his hand. A bar counter was in front of him, bar stools lined up under blue light, tables and booths to the right of him under pink. The few patrons talked amicably with each other over pints of beer, leaning their elbows against the worn wood of the countertop, their hair a messed up version of their work-day style. It was Thursday night.

George walked to the farthest stool, idly listened to the conversation cutting between the walls. The few parts he picked out were heavily political and vaguely Religious. The bartender, a short, slight man in a v-neck, broke away long enough to acknowledge George with a glass of water and a promise that he’ll be back in a second.

“I’m just-” George started but the bartender was already subsumed back into the group. “-Okay.”

George drank half the glass of water in one go.

“Hey.” George looked up, neck craning at an abnormally tall man perching himself on the stool next to him. George cleared his throat, looked away, hands awkwardly gripping the dewy glass. The man propped his foot up on a small ledge on the front of the counter, displaying a profile of red thigh-high high heel boots and the tight-ass glossy black jeans which were tucked into the top of them. Despite the woman’s shoes, he was unapologetically masculine; the way he held himself was gruff and ugly; the way he leaned into the bar, blinked heavily, suggested he’d already been drinking. His hands were hidden in the over-sized pockets of a Army surplus jacket, pulling the jacket away from his body far enough to see the plain white tee-shirt stretched thin across his torso.

“Hey,” George said back. The man's hand left his pocket, pulled out a carton of American Spirits and a plain gold metallic Zippo lighter. He offered George a fag, which George wearily accepted. The lighter took two tries to get a firm flame.

“What brings you here?” The stranger asked through a fresh cloud of smoke. The heady smell of tobacco, nicotine, washed over them.

“The weather,” George replied, voice low.

“Hm.” Ashes tapped into a glass ashtray. George took a long pull, staring at the bottles that lined the back of the bar. The stranger leaned closer to George. “Long day?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“No?”

“No,” George said, smoke spilling from between his teeth. “Can’t complain.”

“Whatcha do for a living?” He asked, over enunciating. He adjusted his perch on the stool, his knee bending further against the counter. George made a face. He couldn’t tell if the man was trying not to seem as drunk as he was, or if this was just the way he acted all the time.

“What do _you_ do?” George asked, leaning across the stranger to tap ash into the tray. The man paused while George did this, lips pursed.

“I work here,” he responded coolly.

“In that outfit?” George joked.

“It used to be the uniform.”

“Used to be?” George asked. The man nodded, blew smoke. “And you get paid to sit around and smoke?”

“I get paid to make the guests feel welcome.” He stuck the cigarette between his teeth, leaned on a closed fist, elbow on the counter top. “You feel welcome?”

“Well, no. You ruined the magic by admitting it was your job,” George said lightly, taking a pull. “I like my strippers to pretend that I’ve attracted them with my overwhelming charm.” The man chuckled like he didn’t think George would notice, plucking the cigarette from between his lips.

“Right. I’m sorry.” Ian rolled his cigarette between his fingers before flicking the ash into the tray. “What’s your name?”

George told him. The man raised his eyebrows.

“You don’t look like a George. At all.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I think you just made that up.”

“I guess I could have,” George said. The bartender walked back over, running a hand gingerly across his overly producted hair.

“What’ll it be?” The bartender asked. George looked down at the half-drunk glass of water.

“Uh,” George squeezed his eyes shut for a second before heaving a sigh. He took another pull from his cigarette before answering. “Coke and vodka. Thanks.”

Bartender walked off.

“A drink for faggots,” The stranger commented, putting his cigarette back between his teeth. George cleared his throat.

“Were you gonna order something?” George asked.

“No.” A pause. Apparently that was the end of it.

“So, what’s your name?” George asked.

“Lola,” he decided.

“What, seriously? Like that song by The Kinks?”

“Excuse me, I thought we were giving fake names.”

“George _is_ my real name, all right?” George looked up at him, trying not to nervously goofy grin. He cleared his throat, stared down at the brown filter. “What’s _your_ real name?”

George was inspected, eyes aggressively searching him. George didn’t watch.

“Ian,” Ian said, tapping his cigarette out in the tray. George’s drink was set down on the counter in front of him by the bartender, who quickly waltzed away. George picked it up and chugged it, his cigarette still smoldering between his fingers. “It’s a stupid name, right?” Ian continued. “Like a name for a fucking Irish rugby player. With, you know, ginger hair and most of his teeth knocked out.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“It’s a white trash name,” Ian went on.

“I always thought George was a white trash name.”

“No, no, no.” Ian shook his head. “George is the name of a guy living in the suburbs with his lovely wife and a couple of award-winning rug rats.”

“Just depends on who you ask, I suppose.”

“What do _you_ think of- _associate_ with the name Ian?”

“Honestly?

“Honestly.” Ian looked earnest enough. George leaned over and put his cigarette out next to Ian’s.

“Ian sounds like the name of the white kid who’d show up to school one day with an AR-15.”

“So, basically, white trash.”

“No offense, though.”

“Not your fault it’s true,” Ian said. He was suddenly distracted, looking at the far corner of the room opposite where they were sitting. “Were you planning on leaving soon?”

“I was planning on it…”

“Can you stay?”

“Oh, I, uh-” Ian turned to look at him again. George noticed the makeup smudges around his eyes. “Stay for what?”

“Fun, I hope.”

George tried to inconspicuously look where Ian had been looking. There was a doorway, wooden frame, around which were neon posters for previous, current, and future events, leading into a hall of misty shadow. George looked back at Ian’s expectant expression. He picked up his glass.

“What kinda fun?” George asked over the top of his coke and vodka. He took a drink.

“The fun kinda fun. Come on, it’s really uncool having to explain this shit.”

“Okay, then give me _one cryptic word_ ,” George said. “Or is that even more uncool? If it is, please tell me; I don’t want to embarrass myself any more than necessary.”

“No, you’re good. I think I can swing that.” Ian squared himself with George, spinning on his bar stool and hooking his heel on a spoke between the wooden legs, putting his hands on his knees. He locked eyes with George, concentrating. George didn’t have the heart to explain he hadn’t really wanted to play this game.  His sarcasm was just too advanced for drunk strangers to pick up on. Ian looked like he was about to slide off the chair, and he probably was. His hair was a tangled mess, slowly falling forward as his head slowly ducked. An uncomfortable amount of time passed.

“So…?” George prompted.

“I’m thinking.” Ian pursed his lips. “I want to say something that’ll make you stay. One word…”

“I-” George started. Ian shushed him. “Okay.”

Ian closed his eyes for a moment and George could see the mess of dark eyeshadow, the lines on the creases of his eyes where it’d been rubbed away. Cheap makeup.

Ian opened his eyes. They were intense and dark.

“Gun.”

“Gun?”

“Gun.” Ian sat back, nodding.

“‘Gun’ is supposed to make me stay?” George asked, not sure if he was amused or concerned.

“Will it?” Ian asked back.

George looked at the misty doorway again, not trying to be inconspicuous this time. He took another drink.

“Yeah.”

 

-

 

Ian was so much taller than George, standing up in his heels, George immediately wondered why high heels weren’t a universal thing. The height was anything but feminine; George just reached his shoulders, and it was dizzying. Ian was slender, but didn’t walk like it. He was in _heels_ and he didn’t walk like it. He walked with the swagger of a construction worker. Like someone with a motorcycle out back and a rolled cigarette tucked behind his ear.

George followed right behind him (which was somewhat difficult as Ian’s stride was loping and long; George had to speed walk to keep up), trying not to wrap his arms around Ian’s waist. The reason for the urge for physical contact was two-fold: George wanted to bury his face in Ian’s strong back and he’d switched from vodka and coke to cinnamon schnapps, so the room was a little wavy around the edges. (Ian had eventually been cajoled enough by a teasing George to join in, slammed shots like cough medicine, like he had to. He had also paid for all the drinks, including George’s; or, at least, had put them on his tab.)

The posters were unintelligible to George, a blurry mess of colors and lines passing as they walked under the lintel of the wooden door frame. A tight hallway immediately opened back up to a decently sized, rectangular, multi-leveled room, gradual steps leading downwards; at the far end was a stage back-lit by what looked like lights in glass bottles. The room was empty, neon purple and blue lights from large light fixtures shining unobstructed on the wooden floor in front of the stage, progressed to darkness where George and Ian stood. To their right was an empty bar, bar stools in disarray.

Ian grabbed George’s hand, pulled him swaying towards a door to the side. George stopped, blinking, next to him. Ian let go of his hand and pulled a ring of keys from his back pocket.

“This place is old,” Ian said in a low voice that George barely picked up. “All the locks are old.”

The door swung open on another dark hallway. Ian flicked a couple of switches beside the door, lighting only half of it. An elevator door, dull and silver, was on the left.

Ian hesitated, turned and looked down at George; he was dwarfed, cast into shadow by Ian’s tall god-like frame.

“How drunk are you?” Ian asked.

“Dunno. How drunk are _you?_ ” George asked back. A nervous feeling, like standing in line for a carnival ride, buzzed through his chest.

“Hm. It’s hard to tell.” Ian rubbed his eye, further fucking up his makeup. “I’m somewhere between was-sobering-up and lost-count-of-shots.” Ian looked at his hand, noticed the dark smudges. His eyes widened before he rubbed his cheek, fingers trying to contour the eye shadow back into shape. “Oh shit. I forgot. Does it look bad?”

“No.” George really couldn’t tell. Ian turned back to the hall entrance, still wiping his cheek.

“Okay. Let’s just go.” Ian walked forward, pressed the button to call the elevator to go down, then stood back, leaned against the wall. George toddled up next to him, couldn’t help but notice a change in Ian’s demeanor. Jittery, unsure, gnawing on his lip and looking at the ceiling as they waited.

The elevator arrived quickly, uncontested. They stepped on and stood at opposite corners of the small space, eyes not meeting as the doors slid close. In utter silence, the floors very quickly fell away; George’s ears popped. Ian shuffled in his corner. They slowed to a stop. The doors opened to a hallway that went to the left - all that could be seen was a floral wallpapered wall - as George heard a gunshot, loud and close.

George was shocked into semi-sobriety. He looked over at a blasé Ian.

“Uh,” George stammered as Ian wordlessly pulled his cigarette carton out of his pocket, strolling out of the elevator as he did. Another round was fired. George stayed at the back of the elevator, eyes wide, brow furrowed; Ian stood in the hallway, faced the elevator, placing the cigarette between his lips and flicking his lighter. The silver doors started closing as a cloud of smoke engulfed Ian’s head. The walls closing around Ian. Standing still, arms folded.

George stuck his hand out. The doors stalled before reluctantly opening back up. George stepped forward, scrubbed his brow, his hand gripping where the door had slotted into the frame. Another gunshot from down the hall.

“Ya comin’?” Ian asked. George looked up at him, intimidated.

“Is it- uhm-” The word “safe” seemed irrationally melodramatic. George gesticulated vaguely.

“Probably not,” Ian said before taking another pull. The doors were trying to shut again, pressing against George’s hands agitatedly.

“I think I should-” George was staring at the long lines of Ian’s legs in his boots. The doors felt like they were about to close whether or not George was in their way. “Fuck.”

George stepped off the elevator; the doors barely waited for him before zipping shut. George turned and stared into the reflective silver, caught a glimpse of his dark joggers and plain shirt, skin pale as fuck against the shapeless black. He swallowed a sigh, sending a prayer upwards as he turned to Ian for further guidance.

Ian was already walking down the hall. George had to jog to catch up to him, felt like he was running on the sides of his feet.

The hallway lead to a long room, about the size of the dance floor upstairs. A gate covered in edgy stickers and graffiti divided the small section they were standing in from the long section in front of them. On the wall of cinder at the end of the range were raggedy paper silhouettes. Two people were already there, a woman pointing a handgun down the range, and a man sitting to the side and reloading magazines next to a fold-up table covered in guns and ammo boxes. At the back of the room were hideously colored lockers, one of which was open.

The woman shot again, plunging George into ringing silence for a second, as Ian walked over to the lockers, pulling out his ring of keys again. His cigarette bobbed from his lips. The woman cussed loudly, the slide locked in a pulled back position. The man laughed, got up from his chair with magazine in hand as the woman released the slide, manually pulled the slide back to check the barrel before releasing her empty magazine, then turning and handing the man the gun. He took it, loaded his magazine with a firm push of the palm, racketed it, and lifted his arms.

The man shot much quicker than the woman, letting off round after round in rapid succession. By the end of it, George couldn’t hear out of his left ear.

“Here,” Ian said, pulling George’s attention away. He was handing George a cigarette and lighter, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. George graciously accepted the cigarette as Ian walked over to the table closest to the exit, lifted his duffel bag onto it. George walked over and Ian gestured to the seat next to the table. George sat down, lit his cigarette, pulling his left ear lobe as it slowly started coming back to life.

Out of the duffel bag came a handgun, similar to the one the couple was shooting, extra magazines and a couple cartons of bullets. Staying in the duffel bag, George could see several hunting rifles, a shotgun, and a large revolver.

“Ever shoot a gun before?”

“I’ve shot a bb gun.”

“That’s not a gun, boy scout.”

Ian picked up the handgun, keeping the muzzle down, checking the barrel much the same as the woman had. He released the magazine, which was empty. His hands were mesmerizing, wrapped around the grip and working with rote rehearsal on the functionality.

“This is a Glock 17 RTF 9 millimeter. It’s empty, but keep your finger off the trigger,” Ian said, holding the gun by the slide and offering it to George. George, still sitting and with a cigarette between his fingers, stared at it uncommitted. Ian didn’t move. George stuck his cigarette between his lips and stood up. He carefully reached for the gun, wrapping his fingers around the groves of the grip; It was plastic, like a toy. He kept the muzzle down, but was otherwise unsure of what he was supposed to be doing.

“Get this part of your hand-” Ian pointed to the webbing between the thumb and forefinger on his own hand. “Resting right up against the bit that juts out there.” He pointed to the back-top part of the gun which adjoined the grip to the slide, acutely curving. George adjusted his hand.

“Okay, both thumbs on one side of the grip,” Ian said. George tried to do that. “Put- No- Just- come here.”

George walked forward, gun in one hand. Ian, cigarette glued to the corner of his mouth, first grabbed George’s right wrist, the hand which was holding the gun, and yanked it up, then grabbed George’s empty left hand and slapped it, palm up, to the bottom of the grip. Ian kept his hands on George’s wrists; the gun was pointing at Ian’s chest. George blinked, staring at it.

“This hand-” Ian squeezed George’s right wrist. “-is for aiming. The other-” Ian squeezed George’s left wrist. “-is for control.”

Ian let go of George’s wrists, and George immediately aimed the muzzle at the ground. He adjusted his fingers so his thumbs lined up on the left side of the grip; there were very subtle grooves there for that purpose. Ian pulled his cigarette from his lips.

“That slide’s gonna rock back pretty fucking quick and with a lot of fucking force, so don’t put your thumb anywhere near it when you shoot.”

“Mhm.” George couldn’t adjust the cigarette between his lips. Ian saw the problem, took it from his lips, dropped it on the floor and stepped on it unceremoniously with his boot.

“The safety is on the trigger. There’s a button that you’re going to press down to release the safety.”

“ _On_ the trigger?”

“Yeah.”

“That doesn’t really sound like a safety.”

“Yeah, it’s not really a safety,” Ian admitted. He walked over to the table, tapping ash onto the floor. “When you pull the trigger, don’t just yank it back, ease it back slowly. You’ll aim better.”

“Gotcha.”

Ian was turned to the table. George was too frightened to move anymore than he absolutely needed to. The couple was packing up their gear, placing their arms into the open locker. The woman was obviously dejected, pouting as she walked out into the hallway. George couldn’t tell if Ian knew the man, but the man seemed to think he knew Ian. He tried to silently get Ian’s attention, but Ian wasn’t giving it. Ian turned his head slightly in the guy’s direction, wordlessly. The guy pointed finger guns before disappearing around the corner.

Ian walked up beside George, grabbed his shoulder and spun him so he was facing down the range. He took the gun from George’s hand, slapped a magazine in, racketed the slide, and handed it back. George’s hands fumbled back into place. The new weight of the gun was weird.

“It’s ready to fire.”

George lifted his arms.

“Don’t hold it that high,” Ian said.

“Then how high should I hold it?” George’s shoulders were tensed like he was shrugging.

“Chest level, arm's length out. _Relax_ your arms a little bit, Jesus Christ. Legs apart. Line up the rear sight with the front sight.”

“Ian, what the fuck am I doing?”

“None of what I’m saying really matters. Just point it down the range and pull the fucking trigger.”

George stared at the glock, then at the target. He put his finger on the trigger, felt the little button that was the pseudo-safety. Ian silently put his hand on George's shoulder blade.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

George held his breath and slowly pulled the trigger.

The grip bit into his hand, the muzzle bucking upwards as the slide rocked back. The bullet casing dropped to the floor with a dull clinking. George’s ears were ringing.

“Were- were your eyes closed?” Ian asked, laughing.

“Yeah.”

“You shot the ceiling.”

“Oh. Fuck, is that bad?”

“Nah.” Ian kept his hand on George’s shoulder.

“There aren’t building levels up there?”

“No,” Ian said simply. “Keep shooting. You’ve still got 15 more rounds in that magazine. Maybe try to aim this time.”

George closed his left eye and found his hand wouldn’t stay still. The sights weren’t going to line up. He shook his head, amazed that he hadn’t passed out from the mix of exhaustion, alcohol and wavering adrenaline yet.

He pulled the trigger again. It hit far to the right of the target in front of him, almost on the other target.

“All right, speed it up.” Ian was now gripping him, fingers digging into his shirt. Smoke from Ian’s cigarette was wafting over George’s shoulder.

George pointed the barrel down the range and fired a few times in a row, each shot higher than the last until he shot the ceiling again. He pulled his aim down, steeled against the recoil, shot some more, not counting the shots.

“I don’t think you’ve hit the target yet, George.”

“I’m working on it.” He wasn’t actually working on it. He just liked the sound of the bullet firing, the feeling of the gun biting into his hand. He adjusted his grip.

George shot until the slide was locked back and pulling the trigger did nothing. He lowered the gun, and looked down the range. Not like he was going to be able to discern where he’d hit, though. He blinked as Ian took the gun from him, releasing the slide so it went back to its resting position.

Ian slammed a magazine into the bottom of the grip, got into position for the target to the right, held the gun with one hand, and fired down the range, shooting wherever the recoil took him. The sight would’ve been funny - a very tall, thin man in thigh high kinky boots wildly firing a gun - had it not been for the knowingly careless way in which he did it.

16 shots went quick.

 

-

 

“You think it’s still snowing outside?” George asked. They were sitting on either side of the table. Ian had taken apart the glock to clean it, keeping the slide, coil and barrel, and handing the grip to George to scrub with a small, blackened toothbrush and brown, liquid gun cleaner. It smelled sweetly metallic.

“We could go to the roof to check,” Ian suggested. George knew that was kind of a stupid suggestion, but he nodded anyway. He looked down at the grip in his hand, decapitated without its slide. Small metal parts were still secured inside it, sharp metal parts that he’d run the brush over. He ran his finger over them gingerly.

“Why’s this here?” George asked.

“What?”

“The firing range.”

“Oh.” Ian looped a small cloth soaked in gun cleaner around a small wire wand before pushing it into the barrel. “It was a project back in the 90’s. It’s pretty illegal.”

“A project for what?”

“The bar used to have a huge crime problem. There was some shit happening nearly every weekend; the owner didn’t want the police snooping around his business all the time, but he also didn’t want patrons getting offed. Both were bad for business, I guess. He built the range to teach his employees how to protect themselves, and the customers, with firearms.”

“So he created a gang.”

“N- Well, actually, yes. I guess he kind of did. ”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier and cheaper to just train them outside of city limits?”

“Maybe. But it wouldn’t have been as intimidating,” Ian said. “It was an ‘I miss the Mafia’ thing.”

“That’s some very sound logic,” George joked. Ian grinned, holding the barrel, a metal tube, up to his eye to look through.

“When all the employees were packing heat, the rabble didn’t come around as often. I mean, they just started going to other bars, but that was a ‘them’ problem.”

“Do they still train employees?”

“Yep.”

“Is that why you know how to use guns?”

“Hell no,” Ian said, holding his hand out for the grip. George handed it to him. “I’m not from Brooklyn; I’m not from the city.”

“You lived on a farm?”

“No. Look-” Ian placed the barrel and coil in the grip before lining up the slide with the ridges at the top and slotting it back on. The gun was whole again. He racketed it, aimed at the floor and pulled the trigger only to hear a small clicking sound, indicating, as they already knew, there was no bullet in the chamber. “Where are you from?”

“That’s- It's kinda complicated.”

“Right,” Ian said. “It’s complicated. Let’s both leave it at that.” Ian tossed everything in his duffel bag and zipped it up with a sense of finality. The oily smell of the cleaner clung to George’s hands. “Still want to go to the roof?”

George looked at him from across the table, met his dark eyes. The makeup smudges and ratty hair had looked artistic before, now looked dirty and depressing. Black streaks ran down his cheek from where he’d tried to fix the eye shadow, which George could now see was dusted onto his white shirt like tar.

“Yeah,” George said, didn’t look away. Ian blinked, pursing his lips and turning his head before standing up from his chair, slinging the bag over his shoulder. His heels clicked on the tile floor as he walked over to his locker.

 

-

 

The ride to the roof was longer than the one to the basement. They stood side by side, shoulders brushing, at the back of the elevator. George felt that unbidden nagging to use Ian as support, if not for drunkenness now but for complete exhaustion. He still had quite a ways to walk before he could crash onto his bed, curl up in his blanket. Forget the soreness in his arms and stiffness in his fingers.

The finally door opened to a dark brick wall. Ian and George stepped out into the hall together. An exit sign glowed green over an industrial matte gray door, illuminating the end of the hallway. Ian walked towards it. George followed. Ian pushed open the door to the roof to windless silence. He looked up at the sky, jawline caught in the moonlight, then down on the roof before stepping out, foot sinking into about a foot of snow. George followed. Fuck his Timbs.

The crunch of snow underfoot seemed to echo around them. Their breath left them in white steam, crisp against the cold air. Navy sky stretched above them, unclouded waning moon straining. Over rooftops, lights winking like the stars they were extinguishing with their pollutants; grid-like, artificial pin prick stars casting the sky into haze. Beyond that, shimmering water, the shore of Manhattan, like a cruiseliner hiding cocktail parties and corporate orgies.

Ian walked to the edge of the roof to a waist high stone railing. Snow had collected, dome-like, tall on top of the wall. Ian pushed parts of it over the edge, creating holes in the perfect line, before scooping long sections of it up and flinging it purposefully off the building. George made his way over to where Ian was standing.

“I guess it’s not snowing anymore,” George said.

“Are you going to walk in this?” Ian asked.

“I’ve got to get home somehow,” George replied. Ian nodded, pursed his lips.

“That’s gonna suck,” He said. “Look.”

Ian leaned over the side, gesturing to the sidewalk far below. George looked. Red neon from the bar sign reflected off the uninterrupted white snow on the sidewalk; the city hadn’t bothered to put any salt down on this part of town.

“Under that snow is a nice layer of ice, I bet,” Ian murmured, still leaning over the edge. Maybe leaning a little too far.

“Yeah.” George put his hand on the wall next to Ian’s. “Don’t you have to walk home, too?”

“What?” Ian lifted himself to his full height, looking down at George.

“Don’t you still have to go home?”

“I live here.”

“In the bar?”

“The levels above the bar are apartments,” Ian explained, blank expression.

“Do you ever leave this building?” George joked. Ian laughed, but shook his head.

“Not very often, no.” He admitted.

“Dude. Really?” George furrowed his brow. Ian shrugged it off. He turned so he was leaning against the wall, facing away from the sidewalk. George’s hand was freezing, gripping the cold, wet stone.

“I’m not- uh-” Ian crossed his arms, his smile obviously forced now. “I’m secure here, I guess. Work and home... It’s, uh… it’s an easy set up.”

“Sure,” George said insincerely. Ian clenched his jaw.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” Ian said. “Where were you coming from?”

George realized the hole he’d just dug for himself.

“I was just walking home-” He started.

“-From?” Ian interrupted.

“Work.”

“Which is...?” Ian asked. George was sure he wasn’t going to be able to sidestep the question twice.

“I work at- a food place.”

“A respectable restaurant, I’m sure.”

“Why does it _matter_?”

“ _Great_ question. Why _does_ it matter? Why don’t you just tell me?” George looked away from him. “Because it’s _embarrassing,_ right?”

“I work at Wendy’s,” George said. “I’m not embarrassed.”

“Really? ‘Cause that was like pulling teeth,” Ian said. There was a pause. “When’s the last time you took a step outside your route between your job and your apartment?”

George shrugged, looking down at the hand he’d rested on top of the wall. Ian’s hand was still right next to it. The cold air was starting to cut through his clothes, soak into his skin. His cheeks were numbing. He realized he’d forgotten his scarf at the bar counter.

“Everything kind of blends together, right,” Ian said, staring at a fixed spot at the other end of the roof. “What day even is it?”

“Uhm… I think it’s Tuesday?” George pursed his lips, looked over the edge of the wall, at the snow that covered the street.

“It just doesn’t matter when you don’t work a nine to five job.”

“Every day feels like Monday,” George said, staring now at winking Manhattan. Ian looked over at him.

“Every day feels like Friday.”

“I bet that’s true when you work at a bar.”

“No, I mean-” Ian hesitated. “Every day feels like Monday _and_ Friday. It feels like I should try to do something, but I’m just- tired. The week doesn’t end; it just keeps going and going… and going… So I just do nothing. All the time.”

George turned, locked eyes with Ian. It was all a lot of nonsense.

“I don’t want to walk home,” George said. Ian wet his lips, hot breath a cloud.

“You could crash at my place,” Ian said quietly.

“Just on the couch,” George asserted.

“Yeah, sure,” Ian agreed.

 

-

 

Low light in a cramped hallway, George’s back hitting the wall jarringly, bodies curving. Yellow light from the kitchen cast them in purple silhouetted shadow. George cupped Ian’s jaw, tilted his face to hover his mouth over Ian’s, lips parted. Ian lurched forward impatiently, wedging George against the wall, capturing George’s lips. Their unpracticed, unfamiliar necking was lackadaisical and weird; George was chasing some idea of intimacy that wasn’t quite working. George’s hands carded into Ian’s hair, catching on tangled, teased locks. Ian grinned, teeth catching on George’s lips, as George’s fingers tried to make sense of the mess.

“Welcome to my apartment,” Ian whispered. George opened his eyes, looking up at Ian’s hair. It was even more of a mystery than it’d initially looked.

“Yeah. Thanks for letting me stay,” George muttered back.

Ian leaned back, looking down at George for an inexplicable evaluation, before he grabbed the hem of George’s shirt and yanked it over his head, tossed the shirt onto the floor. Ian shrugged out of his jacket, and it fell to the tile with a dull thump. Ian’s arms were inked with skulls and flowers and snakes and guns; the images spiralled up his veiny skin, the ones on his shoulders partially hidden by his shirt.

“Fuck,” George muttered, embarrassingly aching. The small space between them was a suicide mission. George reached across and lifted Ian’s shirt over his head. Geometric shapes and light water color designs ran across his ribs and down his sides. Ian was still in his boots, still in his tight glossy pants. George felt thrown together in comparison.

Ian lead him down the hall. George brainlessly ogled his back tattoo; a woven Celtic design.

Ian’s apartment consisted of the front door, which lead to a short hall, to the left was the kitchenette (very tiny) and directly ahead was the living room/bedroom/dining room. Pushed up against the farthest wall under the windows, his bed was bare, no fitted sheet, a comforter bunched up in the middle of it, a rumpled pillow stuck between the mattress and the headboard. A threadbare couch, a wood board on cinderblocks for a coffee table, and a small tv on a plastic stand. To the right of that was the door to the bathroom (also very tiny). The kitchenette could be seen through a window in the wall between rooms.

Ian gestured towards either the couch or the bed as he walked over to the kitchenette window, using the ledge to balance, and started unzipping his boots. George had sat on the edge of the bed.

“You don’t have to take those off,” George said, fingers pressing into the quilted pillow-top mattress. Ian looked over his shoulder at George.

“Well, uhm.” Ian continued unzipping them. “I have to take them off to get my pants off.”

George swallowed, keeping his poker face as he nodded.

“Put them back on. Afterwards. I mean, after- you take your pants off,” George said lightly. Ian laughed.

“All right,” he said, stepping out of the heels then turned to face George. The tight skinny jeans slung low on his hips, hugged his thighs, the waistband of his underwear peeking out from the top, and he looked wildly natural. “Any other requests?”

George shook his head, taking his own shoes off while keeping his eyes on Ian. Ian unceremoniously unzipped his fly before turning back towards the kitchenette window. He pushed his jeans down, bending over to pull the tight fabric from around his ankles and off his feet, leaving him in cotton boxer-briefs. George watched fixedly, could see the profile of Ian’s face highlighted by the light from the window, as Ian straightened, reached back up, minutely hesitating, hands unsure, before hooking his thumbs under the waistband of his underwear, pushing them down, too. George carefully stood up, removing his Adidas joggers as Ian, still facing the kitchenette, casually put his high heels back on, zipping them all the way up, the red faux-leather wrapping tightly around his thighs.

George stepped forward, desperately crossing the space between them. The cold seeped in through the floor, chilly on George’s bare feet. Ian turned back around, leaned against the ledge, expression indiscernible. George stopped, stood in front of Ian, neck craning to meet his eyes; Ian towered above him. Ian looked down at him, head tilted. It was all a little weird. In front of George was a _stranger_ , above all else, naked and visibly aroused and all in boots and tattoos.

Ian kept his eyes on George as he took a step to the side. He circled around George, facing him. George followed, eye contact kept, as Ian guided him walking backwards across the living room until the back of Ian’s thighs hit the edge of his bed. Ian fell back onto the mattress; he was now peering up at George, backing up on his elbows, sliding farther onto the bed. Ian’s erection laid passively against his stomach. George stayed on his feet, looking down at him.

“The lube is under the bed,” Ian murmured.

“Where?” Ian pointed towards the head of the bed. George looked underneath the frame, his hair falling away from his forehead, and found a pitiful stack of lad mags and a white bottle of lube in the dusty dark. He picked it up; dull metal glinted on the floor behind it. A short-nose revolver was lying haphazardly on the floor. George decided to ignore that.

Ian had shifted on the bed, the blanket tossed to the side. George tossed the lube next to Ian, climbed onto the bed one knee at a time, stradling Ian’s legs, crawling forward. He ran his fingers across the top of the boots, fingers drifting towards the thick fabric gathered at Ian’s knees. As George lifted Ian’s legs, he leaned forward, pressing his lips to Ian’s as he grinded against him. Ian growled into George’s mouth, knees grazing George’s sides and high heels in the air, hands reaching down to try to push George’s underwear out of the way. George rolled against Ian again, licking into his mouth and tasting gun powder.

Their lips parted with a wet click. George flicked open the bottle top and squeezed a fair amount onto his hand. He started with two fingers, pushing into Ian slowly but earnestly. Ian choked, fingers digging into the bare mattress; continued to strain, back arching, as George rubbed his fingers inside him, spreading him. George’s other hand gripped Ian’s knee, fingernails grooving into the faux leather of his boot. He watched Ian’s tattoos shift over his ribs with his gasping breath.

George’s hard-on chafed against his underwear; Ian was flushed and panting, hips shifting. George shoved another finger into Ian; Ian muffled an involuntary noise with the back of his hand. George seized his wrist, pulling Ian’s hand away from his parted lips and holding it above his head, as he worked his fingers farther into him. Ian clamped his mouth shut, teeth biting to keep it closed. Ian’s other hand had found it’s way into the back of George’s underwear, gripping the soft fat of George’s ass.

George didn’t have the patience for it. He pulled his fingers out of Ian, releasing Ian’s wrist and grabbing the lube again. Ian yanked George’s underwear down around his thighs, freeing his insistent erection, and wrapped his fingers around George’s shaft. George sighed, head ducking; steadied himself, tried not to lose the loose lube he’d already squeezed into his hand. He reached down, moved Ian’s hand out of the way so he could stroke himself slick. Ian’s hand moved back to George’s ass; he adjusted himself, bringing himself closer to George, legs spreading farther.

George had his hand around his base, his member wet with lube, as he gripped Ian’s thigh. He thrust into him, banking on cheap consent and a strange mix of residual alcohol and adrenaline delirium. Ian groaned through his teeth, his back arching, as George unapologetically buried himself to the hilt.

His hands grappled Ian’s soft thighs, fingers indenting his skin. Ian was tense, clutching George’s hips, stomach muscles fluttering.

“You can- move-” Ian stammered, panting. His hands tugged at George’s skin.

“Hold on,” George gasped. Ian’s hands remained insistent.

George tentatively shifted, an involuntary moan escaping his lips.

His found rhythm was uneven. Ian wrapped his arms behind George’s head, his hands curled into fists, holding him close as he shivered, sighed and groaned, his voice gurgling from his lips like cough syrup. His hands unclenched, clawing George’s back, dull fingernails drawing red lines on his skin. George lost himself, his mind hazing over as the heat, the slick rush of skin, enveloped him. He quickened his pace, vaguely aware of the intensity of Ian’s reaction. His thoughts flitted at the edge of his awareness, whispers of the day begging him to acknowledge the absurd circumstances of the situation. He shut his eyes, brow furrowing, trying to concentrate solely on what he was doing, the enjoyment he wanted so badly to get from it.

“ _George_ , fuck- can you, _ah-_ you’re not-” Ian groaned, hand reaching down and wrapping around his own cock, the other reaching back and grabbing the headboard. He tensed, hips lifting from the bed and head falling backward. George slowed, kneeling in between Ian’s legs, balls fucking deep, a small flicker in the back of his mind embarrassed that he’d forgotten about Ian.

“I can’t- God fucking dammit-” Ian complained. George pulled out, tip leaving Ian much to Ian’s confusion. George pushed Ian’s hand out of the way, was faced with Ian’s thick dick. He leaned down between Ian’s thighs.

George held him in place, one hand pinning Ian’s hip against the bed, his other hand caressing Ian’s dick as he bowed his head and ran his tongue around his tip, his thumb following the line of some vein. His lips brushed the skin; Ian’s erection tremored, pre-cum dripping down his shaft. George licked it up, spit replacing it, before wrapping his lips around his head, slowly moving down Ian’s length, his hand making up for the portion he couldn’t reach. Saliva pooled in his palm pressed against Ian’s cock.

Ian tugged on his hair, hips rolling involuntarily. His legs were still spread, heels now gouging into the mattress.

“Oh shit,” Ian breathed. George’s mouth moved up his shaft, breath hot as he looked up at Ian; Ian’s tip twitched between his lips.

George wasn’t about to swallow this guy’s load. Ian’s dick unceremoniously slid out of his mouth, held up by George’s grip, as he sat back on his haunches, Ian’s fingers slipping from his hair. George’s hand adjusted on Ian’s dick, repositioned himself. Ian squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip as George purposefully thrust into him, immediate rhythm matching the movement of the contact on Ian’s member.

It didn’t take more than a few strokes before Ian was cumming, body tensing with George inside him. He was panting, head tossed back, as stripes of jizz lined his stomach, sticky. George languidly rubbed Ian through his orgasm. Ian was tensing and untensing, agitated by the continued stimulation.

George grabbed Ian’s legs, pushed them up so Ian was practically bent in half, leaned down to cover Ian’s fumbling lips with his own. Ian was sagging, response delayed. His hands cupped George’s face, fingers trembling against his skin. George ducked his head, letting go of Ian’s legs and pressing his cheek to Ian’s. The leather of the boots pressed against his skin, the high heels threatening to cut into his back.

“Are- are you close?” Ian asked in a breathy voice. George held Ian closer, sighs huffing right next to Ian’s ear. He’d lost his momentum from before, knew he wasn’t close enough.

“Trying.” George nuzzled his face in Ian’s jaw.

“George-”

“I know.” George continued pursuing satisfaction, but found he wasn’t getting any closer. He propped himself up with his arms, looked down at Ian’s flushed, slightly annoyed expression; he stopped his thrusting, still inside him. “Want me to stop?”

Ian looked up at him, brows furrowed.

“What? No. Just finish.”

When George hesitated, Ian rolled his eyes. He pushed George’s shoulders. George backed up on his knees, sliding out of Ian. Ian cajoled George to lie on his back on the bed. Ian straddled him, the cum on his stomach dripping down his torso, before reaching down to hold up George’s erection and lining it back up. He beared down on him, George easily gliding back inside him.

“Fuck-” George bucked, eyes wide at the sight. Ian watched George’s expression as he bounced; George’s fingers digging into Ian’s thighs, appreciating the top of the boots indenting Ian’s soft skin. “Ian- what the fuck-”

Ian sighed, running a hand across George’s chest.

George’s breath hitched, back arching as he tipped over the edge, cumming inside Ian. Ian leaned forward, let George’s finish drip out of him as he laid his hands on George’s twitching stomach. He pressed a sloppy, sarcastic kiss to George’s cheek before collapsing on the bed next to him.

George looked over at him. Ian looked like he was already about to fall asleep, blinking heavily at the ceiling. George slid down the bed. He ran his hands up the length of Ian’s boots before finding the zipper on the outside and zipping it down. Ian scrubbed his face with his hands.

Ian’s boots hit the floor like a discarded tiara. Lying completely naked, spent, on the bare mattress, Ian was suddenly human. Life-like. George kissed the tattoos on his ribs. Pressed his forehead to the tattoo on Ian’s shoulder. Fingers traced the line-work on his arm. The window beside the bed danced with white flurries.

Ian was fast asleep in the dim light, despite the mess.

 

-

  


**Author's Note:**

> This semester has been an absolute disaster, and I've become an absolute disaster of a person. Next week is finals week, and I have four papers, three reports, a scrapbook, and a presentation due, some of which I haven't even started the preliminary research for, and then three actual finals, one of which is cumulative. My room looks like one of those hoarders' rooms; you can't see any part of the floor because of the clothes and trash. I've been wearing the same outfit for, like, three days, just with different jackets. Like I've been so bad at procrastinating everything, I'm starting to wonder if I'm even going to be able to pass any of my classes lol. Fuck college.
> 
> I still haven't orphaned "Holster your Gun, Hermes." I still plan on finishing it. Perhaps I could start doing that after next week? I really shouldn't have finished "6 inches higher" when I did; I sat down to work on one of the papers, and wrote on this instead. Like... I started writing "6 inches higher" in March, because I spent my spring break in New York City for a study-away class, and I went to see "Kinkyboots," the Musical, and then I went to this place in Brooklyn called "Baby's All Right," and I just wrote down a bunch of stuff, and I had no idea what I was doing with it, and I still don't understand what this is. I'm not even sure if it's completely done, tbh. I might write a little more on it? I'm shaking my head, because I keep on doing shit I shouldn't. I need to just finish HYGH, but I keep distracting myself, and I'm not even distracting myself with the shit I SHOULD be doing, like the million homework assignments I have. I just waste my time on YouTube, just, like, fucking rewatching videos I've already fucking watched. It's a little ridiculous.
> 
> Anyway. Pray for me.


End file.
